This is my reality right now.
I’ve run the gauntlet of emotions in the past 6 months—yes, six months, half a year. Shock. Anger. Betrayal, anxiety, rage. Sadness. Woe-is-me. I’ve been fearful and fragile, angry and seething with the inclination to grab a cast iron pot and knock PC out. I’ve been heartbroken and lonely and courageous and relieved all in the same 24-hour period.
But what I am right now, is unsettled. I’m moving in a few weeks. I’m not even close to being actually divorced. I’m texting the Trollup about baseball and birthday parties meanwhile PC is telling me is simply not going to adhere to our custody order (order, as in, you have to abide by it legally) because I don’t have to. It’s like I’m dealing with a 5-year-old child and completely naïve adult at the same time.
Trollup, I’ll talk to you about my children. I’ll openly express gratitude to you for caring for them. I’ll remind you of recital dates and send back your kids’ things that my kids come home with. I’ll reply thanks when you tell me to have a good weekend. But make no mistake. We are not friends. It was said today that “she’s a blight on women everywhere. She’s a woman who will sleep with another woman’s husband.” Strip away everything else and that fact rises high above the rest.
The irony that she herself was cheated on and so she speaks to me with some type of shared empathy of understanding why I cannot invite PC to our child’s birthday party…almost as if she’s wearing blinders. And she doesn’t see that she is that woman, the woman that she herself hated. Our drama-free, la-di-da texting about kids and allergies and clothing does not make us friends, Trollup. It does not make us kindred spirits, not in motherhood, single-momhood, or on any plane of reality. You and I are not cut from the same cloth. Our communication is not some type of reflection of what a good person you are…it’s a reflection of my level of class.
Last night I drove home after yet another lovely evening with my BFF (or my lesbian lover, if you’re talking to PC). For all the negatives of this shitty, shitty situation, I commented to her that in my old life, we couldn’t do this. Just…hang out. With no agenda, no end time, no kids, no PC being annoyed because he wanted me to come home so he could go out. I don’t want to not be with my kids but if I have to be? I will enjoy my time alone. So we ate, and we chatted, and we had some wine and fed some chickens and had a bit of a love affair with her dogs. In all aspects it was a lovely, peaceful, easy type of an evening.
Then I came home.
I pulled down the long, treacherous driveway to my house. My home. It doesn’t matter if I shared it with PC, it was always my home more than his. I’ve lived in this house for over a decade. I’ve brought two babies home here. I’ve buried several dogs. I’ve celebrated every Christmas of both of my kids’ lives here. I’ve stared over my view so many times I could never begin to count. I’ve sat outside watching the moon and breathing in the intoxicating air of the woods around me.
I had such an invasive feeling of nostalgia. I wanted it to go away, to be honest. I wanted to come home, smoke a cigarette, and go to bed. My kids were gone, and I was looking forward to my morning. I wanted to hang on to the peaceful feeling I had but as I sat in the driveway I was yet again pulled into the sadness. I poured some wine and went outside, feeling such a heavy sense of…memories? I cannot imagine not walking outside to this patio, throwing a fire together, staring at the sky. I want to wrap myself up in it and carry it with me, always. It is, right now, one of the only familiar things left. As much as PC claims this is my house too it never was. It was never really ours…it was mine. I made this house a home, and now I am going somewhere else, pretty freakin’ soon, to attempt to cultivate another space into a home. My new house spoke to me, and I’m confident this will happen. But…
Unsettled. Everything up in the air.
Tonight, my kids came home. They were happy to see me, and also happy to report all the details of their fun night with Dad (I’m inserting some heavy eye rolling here.) Tomorrow is Mother’s Day, and for the first time in 10 years I am doing exactly what I want, without having to ask PC, or suggest to PC, or cajole PC to do something he doesn’t want to. There are more than one Mother’s Days in memory that he fucking ruined, but I won’t soil this post talking about that right now. But there is a particular one that has always stood out in memory as one of the shittiest days of my life. I digress.
Tomorrow, I’m going to meet my mom, my aunt, and my grandmother for lunch. And my 5 year old daughter will be with me—along with my son—and there, right there, will be four generations. On Mother’s Day, in the worst upheaval of my life; the most precious things still stand strong. I might have a house to pack, a Beauty in the Beast birthday party to throw, a house closing and God knows what drama PC will hurl at me this week…so yes, I am unsettled.
But in the midst of that, the important things remain intact.